


Great House Rising

by TopHat



Category: RWBY
Genre: Action/Adventure, Friendship, Gen, So many Original Charahcters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 09:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11377797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TopHat/pseuds/TopHat
Summary: What if there were no maidens, no silver eyes, and no main cast? Just four people who don't get along working together to get through school.





	Great House Rising

"This you?"

I look damn good in a mug shot, not going to lie. Full frontal catches my eyes, those brown pools the servants describe as chocolate and Mum described as shit. On the profile you get the majestic (not hawkish) nose, barely-long-enough-to-be-tousled hair and a jawline that must have skipped a generation or three, because Da sure as hell didn't give it to me. I'm now in an orange jumpsuit and white tank top now rather than a black suit worth more than my weapon, but they're just clothes.

"Oi. You paying attention?" the headmaster asks, shaking his scroll in front of me. The photo's still there, still devilishly handsome, he's still tall, brown haired and dark skinned, and I've still decide to cut off his man bun for him at some point.

"Yeah, yeah. That's me. So, can I get in?" While this isn't the best situation to be applying to school, I figure he's seen worse than me. That, and I haven't actually been charged with anything, so I  _know_  he's seen worse than me and let them in.

"No." Well, bugger the easy way then.

"How much is it going to cost me?"

"What?"

"How much do I have to pay you to get in?" Hell, the man acts like he's never been bribed before. His face screws up and I realize that in all likelihood he hasn't. This makes him far worse than a war hero. Beacon's headmaster is an idealist. Dust, you'd think I asked for his daughter's hand in marriage rather than a spot at his academy. He rants for a solid two minutes, something about academic integrity and ensuring the safety of his students. I reach into my rucksack and toss a pile of Mum's jewelry onto the table. He stares me dead in the eye, unimpressed, grey eyes boring against my own chocolate orbs. I motion to the pile of gold and jewels with my left hand.

"It's yours if you can let me take the entrance exam. Don't care how, long as I get on the student roster, I'll be happy. The rest," I shake the bag with a little jingle, "will be donated to Beacon right before the test. Seem fair?" Now, part of bribing is looking at what the person cares about. Headmaster of Beacon cares about the school, and I figure all that gold will buy a LOT of lunches.

"That doesn't mean you can survive the test. And I'm not sending you to your death," the headmaster adds, extending a long crooked finger towards me over the pile of wealth, "No matter how much you pay me."

"Look," I say, swiping the jewelry off the table. The crash is louder than I anticipate, and I wince a little. Wasting wealth's a crime, regardless of how you got it. "I was homeschooled, so of course I don't have transcripts. That's not a deal breaker though. Beacon's accepted plenty of students without transcripts. Can you take my word that I've received as much training as your average combat student, if not more? Elsewise, what can I do to convince you?" C'mon you ol' bastard, take pity on a young man.

"Hit me, and-"

The rest is cut off when I flip the table into his face and put my crowbar through it. I hear a meaty thud as the business end of Renegade Lie impacts with something that sounds like a person. That should count as a hit.

He said to hit him, so I did. Hope he expected me to take him literally.

"Good enough?" I can't quite hide the note of smugness that sneaks in. Ah well, we're not all perfect are we? I can't see what's going down past the desk (held up by my hand and the length of steel run through it), and only the head of Lie is through the table.

"No, but I'll let you in on viciousness alone," the bloke's tired voice comes out from behind the table. The same long fingers pointed at my head not twenty seconds ago punch through the table and open up a larger hole, revealing his other mitt around the curved end of the crowbar part of Renegade Lie. "Good use of environment, by the way. Where'd you pick that up?" he asks, letting go of my weapon, and I put it back in my belt loop as the table crashes down between us, decidedly worse for wear.

"Bar fights," I fidget for a bit with my hands hanging awkwardly at my sides. Headmaster here forced me to show my chops. I got played. No other word for it. "So…"

"Bullheads will be available from Vale starting at nine tomorrow. What name should be on the roll?" He asks, pulling out a scroll and mashing a few buttons. A single eyebrow raises with the last question.

Fuck you all, dearest family. This is my ticket out.

"Fiasco GT."

* * *

Deep breaths, Remy. Deep breaths. Remember, it's just school. It's just a new school and you don't know any one (so no one's going to make fun of you), and it's going to be hard, but fun; no one knows about how you lost your eye, and they don't need to know, and oh god, how many of them are staring at your eye patch right now and your satchel that looks like you have all your cats in it (please understand it's not cats, just Dust, don't run away, it's sealed this time I swear)...

Stop, Remy, stop, stop, stop, stop...stop! We talked about this, the whole 'you shutting down and working yourself into a fit' thing. We're going to ride it out, right? Move past the jumpy heart and sweaty palms. They're there, but they're just symptoms, not causes. Let the jitters flow through you, knock against your skin (not escaping, the infirmary's still a ways away!), and disperse. You can do that, Remy. Remember the calming trick. Dust ratios, as many as you can think of. One part red to four parts blue makes for steam, hot enough to shut down the riots that sometimes happen when enough people get hungry. Mix one part yellow with two parts white to create lighting, increase yellow as necessary to increase voltage. Don't worry about amplitude, that's constant regardless of everything else; learned that out of a book and had to correct that teacher and that didn't work out well (who knew glass bottles shattered so easily?), and stop, stop, stop. Remember Remy, it's going to flush out of you, draining and calming. Not whipping up more spiky thoughts. Back to ratios. White and blue make ice, more blue makes for colder while more white makes for greater volume...

After a few more minutes of remembering, my heart's gone back to a regular pace, and I let out a deep sigh. Thanks for that, memory. Let's take a look out the window, shall we? I stand up (bag slides down to my left hip, packed to the bursting with as many shades of dust as I could fit) and I take a look through the glass that separates me and the other students (sorry, other students and I) from a freezing fall to the death.

Vale's actually really pretty from up here. All the bustling people, sketchy alley ways and struggling shops are gone when you're get this high up. All you can see is an idyllic little sky line, and a few towers have even sprung up. The rain makes it look like diamonds are falling. It's like that in Mistral during the wet season too, come to think of it. Guess the cities aren't so different at all.

Then the light catches the wrong angle and I get another look at my reflection in the glass. Cringe.

A long black flak jacket drops to my knees, patched and stained from years of Dust work, with a mask over my mouth and nose so the chance of inhaling the stuff that I've made is low enough for safety (you only blow yourself up with Dust once before it's a necessary evil). The stupid plastic eyepatch has seen better days and makes me look like a terrorist/pirate/edge lord (edge lady?) combo, and the other scars that pepper my face certainly don't help. Maybe I'll get lucky and people will leave me alone out of fear of my fashion sense catching. That'd be nice (but maybe some friends who are equally visually challenged?). Back to the seat then, so other people can look at something other than my back. Probably the cleanest part of my coat, come to think of it. Most things tend to blow up in my face if I do it wrong. If I'm doing it right, I should be too far away to care.

About getting hurt, that is. I care about blowing things up. That's always the most important part.

"Now arriving at Beacon."

I have never been so happy to hear an automated voice. Ever. The acceptance email was written, so that doesn't count. Let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding and sprint for solid ground as soon as the door opens. Time to relax against the nearest tree and figure out where to go for the entrance ceremony. That and try to see who's the least freaked out by my gear. Maybe I can find someone to pair up with.

* * *

"Simone, I'm turning off the comms on my scroll now. It's an entrance exam, we aren't allowed to use them. Tell mama and the kids I love them," I squeeze out a pair of quick air smooches and I can finally hang up. Shut off the comm function and turn off the scroll entirely for good measure. I need to be focused here.

Anyway, back to the briefing.

The headmaster (some dark skinned guy with a TON of scars and brown hair) is giving us the rundown on what to do. Grab a relic, and meet a partner-not in that order. Simple enough.

I wonder if he's a fan of the rain? Probably not. Neither are the students, half of them shivering like they've never dealt with less than perfect weather before. Well, if they just put on some damn clothes, maybe this wouldn't be a problem for them, now would it? Seriously, some of these people look like swimsuit models.

Speaking of jackets, I check my gear for the fiftieth time. It's not a nervous tick (no, really, it's not). Just one more way for me to make sure that this goes right.

My sword and my axe are snug in their sheaths, not tight. Cheap, mass-produced crap, but it'll do for now. The armor panels on my dress, arms, and painfully small chest were checked for cracks last night and haven't changed since. I still have that waist strap of steel and dust shells for when anti-armor is needed (not likely), and the camouflage is still clean on top of everything. I won't need to reapply the paint for another few months at least.

I don't understand why none of the other students want to get a half second of surprise on the Grimm. I somehow doubt that scent alone can perfectly pinpoint a target, and I'll take every advantage I can get. This Huntress-in-Training isn't interested in painting a target on their back.

Back in reality, a few launch pads have already flipped, launching my classmates into the great grey yonder. Only a few have goggles. Bugs must be hell. I slip on the featureless mask (also sprayed shades of green today) in preparation, noting my reflection on the inside curves for a moment. Blue almond eyes, and platinum blond hair I buzz ever two weeks so it doesn't catch on anything. It's a strong face. I'm going to believe that, and when the buckles click and my head is encased in steel I feel a little more solid. A little more me. Wonder if everyone has these little rituals. I scan down the remaining students for anyone working through a routine.

Huh. Two students have run away from the panels, one in a respectably thick black and rainbow jacket with an impressively full satchel, and the other in an orange prison jump suit pulled down to his waist with the sleeves tied off and white tank top. Well, it's their decision to abandon this. Weaklings.

Then the one in an orange prison jumpsuit runs back to the edge, catching the lip of the launch pad with his toes and goes flying off into the forest, far faster than the previous students. I blink. Maybe not weaklings. Satchel girl follows suit two plates later, but adds an explosion to her exit, knocking a student to her immediate left off balance and giving her more velocity than prison guy.

Why didn't I think of that first? Wait. There's still time, and I dash back to get some momentum for the launch. There's a small cough, and I make eye contact with a whack job in a black and white checkered poncho complete with matching sombrero a few plates down also planning on a running start. He smiles beautifully (seriously, it's like all the pretty people in the world decide to fight instead of model), and motions with his thumb and pinkie finger.

"Call me?"

I give him a nod. I mean, we were the only two who bothered to steal the running start idea. I'll work with someone operating on the same shameless level.

Then I run forward, catch the back of the plate just in time, and I'm flying.

* * *

Impact in three, two, one, and…

Drop. Also plenty of broken branches and crushed bushes as I roll for a good city block before screeching to a halt. Glad I didn't crash into any trees. That would've maybe killed me. Guess I can't always be devilishly handsome and graceful.

I get up check my reflection on the flat of Harmonic Regent. One of the perks of wielding a six-foot length of custom steel and electronics is that it makes a convenient full-body mirror.

Coffee skin is unmarred (thank you, Aura), black and white hair is still acceptable, and I'm not missing either of my amber eyes. My dress white shirt and black slacks have made it through without any excessive grass or mud stains, though the same cannot be said about my poncho. No matter, that will wash out.

I turn on some music (gotta remember to thank that Atlas chick for the extra nice wireless buds) and look around for Grimm. Nothing in sight. Time to check the other places. I activate my semblance (goodbye, scent) and sounds sharpen and expand. I listen past the tunes and see if I pissed off something by accident.

Yes I did. Sounds like six, no, seven Beowolves twenty meters out and closing, while three other students are a little farther in. One with heavy steps that I would normally associate with an Ursa (probably the convict in orange), one pitter patter that's a little off beat (the girl with the satchel, stutter stepping around), and one with smooth, even footfalls. That would be Miss Try-hard, my next destination.

But first, violence. I focus on my eyes and withdraw my hearing. Move past withdrawn, turn it down to nothing, and my eyes focus, details popping into noticeable view and movement slowing as I start to process it all.

Harmonic Regent comes to a guard in all its imitation tuning-fork glory as I feather the trigger and turn it to dampening mode, deadening all noise made within a two-meter radius of the blade. My footsteps are silent now. I get behind a tree, bark scratching against unknown itches, and wind up for a stab. Wait a few moments for the ambush, and...

Two steel prongs slide through one side of a Beowulf and out the other. 'Wolf followed the wrong sound. That'll learn you. The six behind seem confused at how their vanguard was cut down in perfect silence.

Let's fix that.

Forward, watching for twisting muscle underneath hide. Duck the wild slashes, telegraphed by stretching tendons and ripples in fur. Dash forwards, landing on solid ground, eyes finding and feet avoiding mud pools. Slice across throats, finding every single major blood vessel.

Just like that, two more Beowolves are rapidly disintegrating, missing throats. The other four come at me in one great tide of muscle and teeth.

Bad plan, mates.

Dash forward again. One cut, tip towards the sky, knocks paws to the side. Follow it with a backhand cut across softer bellies and the wolves open up and spill. I spin to face my two remaining adversaries. They both decided to pounce without waiting. Rude.

I pull the trigger this time. Only for a moment. A blast of ultrasonic blows out their eardrums and they fall to the ground, whimpering. Two quick jabs to the neck and the pack has been dealt with. Listen again for more wolves.

...

Nothing.

Well, time to proceed with the objectives. I extend my hearing out again, locate Little Miss Try-hard, use some basic trig to figure out she is, and start cutting my way through the forest towards her.

I wonder what sort of music she likes?

**Author's Note:**

> I work primarily on FanFiction, rather than AO3. If you want the rest of the fic, check out my profile there. Updates weekly.


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